wolfstar daughter au
summary: when the potter and lupin parents' morning coffee is interrupted by loud arguing from upstairs, they fear the worst. but luckily for them, it's not what they think...
wc: 3.5k+
cw: i don't wanna spoil, but arguing, smut, teasing, manhandling, a little rough
a/n: i think i really nailed the best friends to lovers dynamic with this one, a.k.a they both purposefully annoy each other and i love it
divider by @thecutestgrotto
The soothing morning between four best friends and their mugs of coffee and tea was rudely interrupted by a loud clatter of things upstairs. Lily Potter sighed in synch with Remus Lupin, both of them shooting each other a silent look of amused disbelief while their husbands carried on with their conversation. Of course, ever since children had come into the picture, they hadn’t been able to get a single full hour of relaxation. It seemed that whenever they were awake, so were you and Harry, and whenever they were asleep, you and Harry were still awake. So usually, they took the early mornings of weekends to enjoy the quiet as you slept in until noon. However it seemed that today, you and Harry had woken up earlier than usual and decided to take away from their peace. But now, instead of hearing a crying baby over the monitor, it was two screaming teenagers.
“I can’t believe you cheated!”
An accusatory yell full of betrayal sounded into the house, the open door of Harry’s bedroom allowing the adults to hear everything. In unison, the four adults in the living room straightened up as you shouted back “You went through my things!? That’s such an invasion of privacy, Harry!”
“Well it doesn’t seem you deserve that privacy if this is what you’re using it for!”
Sirius and Remus looked at each other for a long moment, the blood draining from their faces. You were cheating on Harry?
“You have no proof that-hey, give that back!”
Remus and Lily both scrambled up in unison as another clatter was heard upstairs, leaving James and Sirius frozen in their seats. The last thing they needed in the world was for you and Harry to break up. What would that mean for their friendship? What would that mean to their families? Would they have to defy the lifelong dream they were able to achieve of living next door to each other just because you had made a silly mistake? But no, they refused to believe you would do such a thing. You were you; caring, gentle and protective of those you loved. Those who included Harry.
Lily and Remus cautiously made their way up the stairs, listening closely as the sounds of arguing became louder. They followed along the corridor quicker as the sounds of a struggle became apparent to their ears, only stopping in front of the open doorway when they took in the sight in front of them.
You and Harry were sat facing each other on his bed, both tugging at something Harry had a good grip on. You were on your knees, trying to use your full body to yank the object out of Harry’s hands. Harry’s face read of pure betrayal and fury, sat cross-legged on his bed, his quidditch trained arms flexing as he pulled the cards back in his direction.
“Let go! Those are my well earned properties.”
Properties? Remus placed his hands on his hips, face dropping in a weird sense of disappointment. Because, of course, laid out between you on the bed was a full monopoly set. “You cheated! I was going buy this one!”
“I bought it first, doesn’t mean I cheated!”
If you were aware of your parents’ presence, you didn’t show it. They both sighed a long exhale of relief, and Lily rolled her eyes fondly, reaching over to grab the door handle, pulling it shut. Immediately, the sounds of arguing became muted, the silencing charm working miracles for them.
“Monopoly.” They explained to James and Sirius, who looked like they were awaiting a verdict for a death sentence. The two men immediately sunk back into the couch, James clutching a hand over his chest while Sirius snaked his fingers through his hair.
Upstairs though, the fight was nowhere near over. Harry yanked at the property cards in his hands, and you squealed as the force tugged you forward, causing you to sprawl out onto your front on his bed, halfway across the monopoly board in front of you, sending little buildings and flimsy monopoly bills flying through the air. Unfortunately for Harry though, your relentless hold was still on your beloved property cards. How they didn’t rip between you was a miracle. Harry groaned as you flipped over onto your back, using your legs to push away from him, taking the cards with you.
Your boyfriend sacrificed one hand from the cards so he could curl a finger into a belt hoop of your jeans, stopping you from travelling any further away from him. Harry huffed as the cards began slipping away from between his fingers, getting up from his seated position to roll onto his knees, swinging a leg over one side of your hips so he could straddle you. You pulled at the cards in Harry’s hands one last time, making a small sound of success as they slipped away from his grip, but Harry was quicker. He immediately brought a hand down to curl around your wrists, pinning them over your head. You gasped as he stretched above you, distracted by the sliver of his midriff that became exposed and the dark patch of hair that disappeared under his jeans, while he used his free hand to uncurl your fingers from the cards, freeing them from your grasp.
You slumped back on the bed in disappointment and Harry grinned at his success, his grip unrelenting on your wrists, even as you tried to wriggle out of his hold. He sat there for a moment, waving the cards in your face. "I'll give you 150 for this set."
"No way! I paid like five times that amount for it! I'm not just gonna give it to you." Harry raised his eyebrows at you, comfortably putting his weight on you from where he was straddling you. He glanced at the properties, then back at your helpless position.
“Give me 800 and they're yours.”
“You know what, I don't think I want your properties, I'm enjoying this a little too much.”
You whined your boyfriend’s name long and hard, tugging your wrists down, but he was too strong. “Admit to cheating and I’ll let go.” He compromised.
“But I didn’t cheat!” You argued, a pout forming on your lips. Harry ducked his head down, pecking your lips quickly before returning to his original position atop you. He seemed too smug like this, thighs caging your body, one hand securing yours in place. You planted your feet on the bed, taking a deep breath before bucking your hips up with as much strength as you could muster. Harry’s eyes widened in shock at the power, his free arm shooting out to find something to stabilise himself with. Alas, he lost balance on top of you, making it easy for you to scramble out from underneath him. You snatched your hands out of his grip, scurrying away from him on the bed, but Harry leaped towards you, arms wrapping around your front and pulling your back snug against his chest before rolling you onto your stomach. You tried getting onto your knees, but Harry’s weight on your back didn’t allow it. He fished for your hands in front of your torso, pinning them behind your back again with the same hand as before.
Harry pressed himself further into you as he attempted to take some of his weight off you, knees finding the mattress on either side of you, and that was when you felt it, poking into your thigh as you caught your breath. You pushed yourself back against him in disguise of wiggling out of his hold, making sure you weren’t imagining things. You almost laughed. No way Harry got so turned on at the prospect of manhandling you that he popped a boner. Instead of fighting him any longer, you decided to tease a little.
“Are you going to do something about this position, or just keep me like this forever?”
Harry leaned over you, his breath brushing the side of your neck. He paused for a moment, then pressed a soft kiss to the soft skin there. You shivered as he ran his tongue down the length of your neck before covering up the trail with kisses. He brought a hand down to the small of your back before snaking it in front of you, playing with the button of your jeans. “I’m gonna take these off now, okay?”
You nodded quietly, heart rate rapidly increasing as the anticipation built. Harry toyed with the button of your jeans, and you lifted your hips up to try and help him, but you only pressed yourself back against his erection more, causing a quiet groan to leave him. He cursed under his breath, chewing on his bottom lip and squinting his eyes as he continued fiddling with the button, hoping that it would be obedient and just pop out of its place. He sucked in a sharp breath as the button let up, quickly moving his hand down to unzip the trousers. Harry moved his hand back to where it was behind your back, curling it into the waist band of your jeans and pulling it down desperately.
The jeans didn't budge.
"Does someone need help?" You teased, glancing back at your boyfriend, whose face was growing more frustrated by the minute. Harry stubbornly shook his head, huffing as he paused, thinking of what to do next. "Don’t move your hands." He demanded, and you nodded again, mildly amused at his struggle. He let do of your wrists, now using both hands to frustratedly tug your jeans down your legs. When the piece of clothing was finally over your ass and bunched around your knees, Harry guided your legs out of each pant leg, carefully moving your body around. He tossed the jeans somewhere on the floor, then quickly stood up so he could take his off too.
He stumbled onto the bed again, running his hands down your thighs and back up to your ass, groping you contently. Harry leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your ass before he was returning again, much less gentle as he sunk his teeth into your skin, biting down relentlessly. You yelped, jerking away from him, but Harry held you still by the hips, even as you brought down a hand to snake through his hair, trying to pull him away from you.
"Ouch, Harry! You’re such a jerk." You complained to him despite the way your thighs clenched and your panties grew wetter. You watched with a pout as he pulled away, leaving a bite mark on your butt cheek. Harry grinned, bringing both his hands back up to rub your skin to 'soothe it', but he harshly smacked your ass, leaving you with a hand print on one side and a bite mark on the other. "What’s wrong with you!?" You asked, lifting your chest off his bed to turn around and look at him with an incredulous expression.
Harry grinned, hands snaking up your body to clutch your biceps as he pressed an apologetic kiss to your jaw. "Finally able to touch you. 'M never going to take my hands off you."
"Yeah, pretty sure everyone already knows that by now, dumbass."
Harry rolled his eyes playfully, yanking your arms back and pushing your chest forward so your front slammed on his mattress. "Yeah, yeah. And I said hands stay right here, dumbass." You huffed, letting Harry drag you backwards onto the bed so that your face wasn’t so close to the edge, rolling you over wonky monopoly pieces in the process. You shifted uncomfortably, mumbling your boyfriend’s name to get his attention, but he was already running a hand between your body and the mattress, moving aside any uncomfortable toy pieces from under you. Finally, Harry dragged his pillow away from the bed’s headboard, gently tapping your thigh so he could slide it underneath your hips.
"Everything good now, princess?" He asked with a mock annoyed tone, happy that you couldn’t see the loving smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his fingers hooked into the fabric of your panties. You hummed, lifting your hips for Harry to take your underwear off. Again, when he was done he repeated the movement on himself, freeing his cock from the confines of his boxers. Harry’s hands guided your thighs apart slightly, licking his lips as he caught your glistening wetness in the light.
But still, Harry ran two fingers through your folds, finding your clit like second nature so he could rub tight circles onto the sensitive bud. He waited until you began squirming underneath him to slide his fingers away from your clit and into your entrance. They glided in without struggle, and Harry only pumped them into you a few times before deciding that you could take him, motivated by your quiet moans.
Harry stroked himself with his already slick hand, spreading precum over his cock, sighing as he brushed over his sensitive tip. You pushed your ass back, and Harry couldn’t help but grin at the sight of his bite marking your skin. Harry stabilised himself by wrapping a hand around your wrists, obediently kept behind your back, leaning his weight on you slightly as he guided himself into your entrance. “Fuck,” He mumbled as his tip caught on your entrance. “Already making me struggle.”
Your delighted laugh took Harry aback, his eyebrows furrowing in astonishment. “What are you laughing at?” He asked, his movements completely stilling. You didn’t answer, but you wiggled your hips, sighing as his tip popped out of your entrance, slipping down and nudging your clit. You just wanted the full heaviness of his cock inside you. “Harry, please.”
Harry hummed, briefly wondering if he should give in to your plea or not. He shrugged his shoulders, pushing back into you with one slow forward drag of his hips. Your mouth dropped as he slid all the way in, shutting your eyes tightly in pleasure. “Fuck, I should have gotten a mirror for this room.”
You squeezed your thighs, rocking your hips back to encourage Harry to move, but when he set a hand by your head on the mattress, gaining composure, you exhaled deeply, mumbling “I told you so.”
Harry huffed, pulling out of you until just the tip was notched inside you, then slammed right back into you, his hips loudly smacking against your ass. You cried out loudly, missing the way Harry rolled his eyes, complaining “You are so smug. Fuck, turn around, I want to see your face.”
But before you could even comply to Harry’s words, he had pulled out, grabbed you by the hips and flipped you onto your back. You winced at the sting on your ass from Harry’s earlier displays of affection, and Harry smirked, hiking both your legs over his hips and holding your ankles over his shoulders. He leaned his weight onto you, easily sliding back in and almost folding you in half as he began thrusting into you again, firmly gripping your shins.
Harry’s jaw went slack at the immediate pleasure that filled him, but his gaze was glued to the way your face morphed into pleasure, eyebrows scrunching up as your lips parted, moans flying out of your open mouth as you dug your head back into the mattress. Harry glanced down at where he disappeared inside you with every thrust — a mistake, because the second he saw the way you kept swallowing him up, juices pooling around him and wetting the expanse of your thighs and his dark patch of pubic hairs, Harry almost came on the spot. You followed your boyfriend’s gaze, whimpering at the sight of his cock plunging into you with perfect repetition, making you take him over and over and over again. Not that you were complaining.
“Harry,” You panted, both hands gripping his dark bedsheets. “I wanna kiss.” Harry groaned at your words, feeling himself twitch inside you with pure need. “God, my baby wants a kiss?” You nodded desperately tears forming in your eyes as his pelvis brushed against your clit, an overwhelmed gasp flying from between your lips.
Harry gently eased your legs off his shoulders, laying them on the bed gently so he could fully lean over you, slamming his lips onto yours. You moaned loudly, both hands flying up. One tangled in Harry’s hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss as you parted your lips, the other desperately gripping his shoulder to help ground yourself. Harry tilted his head to the side, kiss sloppy as he kept up his abuse on your cunt, tongue chasing yours and swallowing up all your pleasured noises.
You hooked both legs over Harry’s hips, linking them behind his back to pull him closer, deeper inside you. Harry groaned, breaking the kiss to dig his head into the crook of your neck, leaving a mess of drool and saliva all over your skin as he sucked and nibbled on it. His hips stuttered, losing their control for a short moment when you tugged at his hair particularly hard, before regaining momentum.
“Harry,” You started, voice breaking as he brought a hand down between your folds to rub your clit. He hummed against the skin of your neck, desperately trying to hold his orgasm off and make the moment last longer. Your pussy clenched around him and he bit down on your neck, causing a high pitched sound to leave your lips, interrupting your train of thought for a brief moment. “Didn’t cheat.”
A half-hearted laugh surprised you, and you eagerly found Harry’s eyes when he pulled away from the dip in your neck, planting a hand on the side of your head to keep balance, straightening up a little so he could look down at you. He admired you for a moment; the way dots of sweat decorated your shirt and your hardened nipples showed even though you wore a bra. He admired the flushed look on your face, and the heat radiating off your skin, but most importantly, he admired the way one of your hands clutched his bicep for support and tears rimmed your eyes with pleasure, gaze dropping down for just a second to glance at his fingers working your clit into overstimulation.
Capturing your lips with his again, Harry mumbled something incoherent into the kiss, but he pulled away, lips still grazing yours as he said “My perfect girl. I know you didn’t cheat.” Your breath hitched at his words, and Harry briefly smiled, interrupted by a wave of pleasure that had his face scrunching up, but he still worked his way through his next words, panting as he said “Just like to tease you. My baby… You close?”
You nodded, lifting your head up slightly to kiss Harry again. He groaned, pushing you deeper into the mattress as he fought the shake in his thighs, keeping up a consistent pace. Harry slipped his tongue into your mouth, moaning into the kiss as your thighs tightened around his waist, pushing him impossibly deeper into you. Your back arched and you cried out, lips separating from his as your cunt clenched around him, your orgasm flooding your senses. Harry trembled, cursing loudly as his cock twitched, balls emptying his entire load into you with thick ropes of cum.
He pulled his hand away from your clit so he could stabilise himself as his orgasm overtook his body, shaking from head to toe. You unravelled your legs from around him, letting them slump on the bed as you pressed a kiss to Harry’s sweaty forehead. When the aftershocks of his orgasm were over, Harry lifted his face up, catching the fond look you watched him with. He hummed, pressing his lips against yours, and you cupped his cheek, lips parting so you could lazily make out, sweaty bodies pressed against each other and loving kisses exchanged.
It didn’t take away from Harry’s wandering hands though, because soon enough, you jumped up, Harry’s groping hands squeezing the tender skin of your ass. You pulled away from the kiss, mumbling “Ouch, Harry.”
But your boyfriend only seemed all too pleased with himself, finally pulling out of you and toying with the hem of your shirt. “I bet some cold water would make that feel all better, huh?” You furrowed your eyebrows, but still lifted your arms up as Harry eased your shirt above your head, tossing it aside and then making way to take your bra off next. You gasped as your sensitive nipples became exposed to the chilly air, and Harry only looked at them for a moment and licked his lips before taking his own shirt off.
“Shower?”
You laughed lightly, a smile tugging on your lips, almost identical to the one Harry had. You extended your arms out, and Harry leaned down, snaking his arms under your back before lifting your torso up. You kept your arms wrapped around him in a hug, and Harry peppered short kisses onto your neck.
“Shower.”
But even as Harry pulled you in direction of the bathroom door, you both knew there was only about twenty seconds before you got distracted again.
ㆍ S.B x Arranged Marriage! Reader
ㆍ Angst // SLOW BURN // one sided relationship // happy ending!
ㆍAn arranged marriage kept them under the same roof, but years of quiet indifference left them strangers in their own home. When Sirius finally shows a new, unexpected vulnerability, Y/N must decide whether to trust him—or let the distance between them become permanent.
ㆍ8.3k
ㆍRequest: ashdreams2023
ㆍTaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @pottermagiczz
ㆍA/N: i apologize for how long this took but i absolutely loved this angsty little piece <3
Much love, Saige
[masterlist]
The Black family had always been bound by blood, but Sirius Black had long since learned that blood was a chain, not a comfort.
He had escaped its pull once — stormed out of Grimmauld Place at sixteen, slammed the door behind him, and sworn never to return. But the irony of fate, as it often did, found its way back to him years later in the form of a signature on parchment.
An arranged marriage.
A peace offering.
A way, his mother’s letter had said, to “restore the Black family’s dignity.”
He’d laughed when he first read it; a dry, humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes. He had no reason to humor her, no reason to involve himself with the ghosts of his lineage. But the war was ending, the Order was quieter now, and his defiance had dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere between the funerals and the rebuilding, he had stopped fighting everything on sight.
So when the proposal came, a match arranged years ago by family tradition, meant to bind the Black name to another “respectable” pure-blood house, Sirius didn’t tear it up. He didn’t even scoff.
He simply signed.
And that’s how he met you.
You weren’t cruel. You weren’t vain. You weren’t anything the Blacks had been known for. That, perhaps, was the problem. You were polite, careful, quiet — an echo in a house that had once been full of shouting.
The wedding was small, the kind that left more whispers than memories. Sirius had shown up late, smelling faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. You’d worn a soft gray gown that your mother said was “understated but elegant.”
He hadn’t said you looked beautiful.
He hadn’t said anything at all.
Now, months later, Grimmauld Place was too big for two people who barely spoke.
You slept in the same bed. You ate the same dinners. You smiled at the same guests who came to call — old friends, new acquaintances, members of the Order who congratulated you both with a knowing grin. You called him husband in public, the word tasting foreign every time. He called you wife with that easy charm of his, voice smooth enough to make anyone believe he meant it.
But behind closed doors, it was different.
There were nights he reached for you, only because it was expected — because you were his wife, and he was your husband, and that was what married people did. His hands were always gentle, his kisses practiced. But they were never for you. They were obligations wrapped in warmth. When he turned away afterward, falling asleep without a word, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.
It wasn’t hatred that lingered between you. It was something worse — indifference.
He treated you kindly, almost too kindly, as though afraid to bruise a fragile thing. He asked about your day, but not because he wanted to know. He complimented your dress at dinner parties, but only when someone else might overhear. He never yelled. He never scowled. He never cared enough to.
And yet, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to despise him.
Because sometimes, in the smallest, most fleeting moments.. you caught glimpses of the man beneath the distance. The way his voice softened when he spoke of James. The quiet grief in his eyes when he thought no one noticed. The way he always made sure you walked on the inside of the pavement when you went out together, as if protecting you was a reflex he couldn’t suppress.
Those tiny fragments of tenderness were enough to keep hope alive — a cruel, fragile thing that refused to die.
You had been married six months when the silence began to feel heavier than the walls around you. You tried to fill it; with books, with chores, with conversation. You’d talk about the garden you wanted to plant, or the stray cat that came to the window sometimes. Sirius would nod, half-listening, and then disappear into his study.
He was always disappearing.
Sometimes, you’d hear the low murmur of his voice from that room — old friends, most likely. Sometimes Remus, sometimes Order business. You never asked. You weren’t sure if it was your place.
You had stopped expecting warmth. You simply learned to exist in the spaces between his life and yours.
Until one evening, something shifted; not enough to change anything, but enough to make you notice.
It was late, the fire low and the house quiet. Sirius came in from the cold, shaking snow from his hair, his shoulders dusted with frost. You were reading by the hearth, blanket wrapped around your legs, when he paused at the doorway. For a brief moment, he just looked at you — as if seeing you properly for the first time. The flicker of recognition in his gray eyes startled you.
“You’re still up,” he said, voice rough from the cold.
You nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He hesitated, then moved closer to the fire. You watched the light play across his features — the tired eyes, the faint scar along his jaw, the weight he carried like a shadow. He smelled faintly of smoke and winter.
For once, the silence didn’t feel entirely unbearable.
“You should rest,” he murmured after a while. “It’s late.”
“So should you,” you replied quietly.
He almost smiled. Almost.
And then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He turned away, retreating toward the stairs.
“Goodnight, wife,” he said, not looking back.
You closed your book, heart aching at how easily the word wife could sound so empty.
“Goodnight, husband,” you whispered into the quiet.
And though he didn’t hear you, you wished — more than anything — that he had.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You began to take notice of some little things first.
The way Sirius preferred his tea — black, no sugar. The way he leaned back in his chair when he read, one ankle crossed over his knee. The music he sometimes played in the study, low and scratchy, old records of Muggle rock bands he must’ve picked up in his wilder years.
You didn’t know when exactly you started trying to please him.
Maybe it was the silence, heavy and constant, pressing against your ribs. Maybe it was the small ache that came from watching him laugh at something Remus said, a laugh that never seemed to belong to you.
So, you started small.
You brewed his tea the way he liked it — dark, strong. When you brought it to his study, he barely glanced up from his parchment. “Thanks,” he muttered absently, taking the cup without looking at you.
He didn’t notice the way you’d taken the time to warm the mug beforehand.
Next came dinner. You asked Kreacher to prepare things Sirius liked — roast chicken, potatoes, buttery rolls, dishes that made him nostalgic for the meals at the Potters’ home, before everything went wrong.
When you called him to the table, he was late. You waited, watching the food cool until finally his footsteps echoed down the hall.
“This looks good,” he said with a faint smile, taking his seat. You smiled back, foolishly relieved. But halfway through the meal, you realized he wasn’t really tasting it. He was just… eating. Like it was habit, like you could’ve served anything and he wouldn’t have noticed the difference.
Still, you tried again.
You found a record he might like — one of those old Muggle albums with a guitar riff he always hummed under his breath. One evening, while he sat by the fire with a book, you put it on quietly.
His head lifted a little, gray eyes flicking to you, something almost surprised in them.
“This is… good,” he said softly.
You smiled, heart thudding. “I thought you’d like it.”
He nodded, the faintest curve of his mouth there for only a second. And then he went back to reading.
The record spun on, filling the empty house with the sound of something that used to mean freedom. You sat nearby, pretending to read too, though your eyes stayed on him instead. Watching the way his thumb traced the edge of the page, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he seemed entirely untouched by the effort you’d made.
You weren’t expecting gratitude. You weren’t even expecting affection. You just wanted something — a flicker of interest, a trace of awareness that you were trying to reach him. But he stayed the same, polite and distant.
It was almost worse than anger.
A few nights later, you wore something new. A soft dress in a color he’d once mentioned liking, a passing remark months ago that had somehow stayed with you. You joined him for dinner again, nerves making your hands shake slightly as you poured the wine.
He didn’t seem to notice.
His eyes skimmed over you with the same detached politeness he offered anyone else. He asked how your day had been. You told him about the book you were reading. He nodded. That was all.
The next morning, you woke before him. He was lying on his side, turned away, hair messy against the pillow. The light from the window traced the line of his back beneath the sheets. You stared for a long moment, wondering what it might be like to reach out — to touch him just because you wanted to, not because it was expected.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you slipped quietly out of bed, dressing in silence, pretending that the ache in your chest wasn’t growing heavier by the day.
Later that week, you overheard him talking to Remus in the study. You hadn’t meant to listen, you were passing by, tray in hand, but his voice caught your attention.
“She’s been… different lately,” Sirius said, tone uncertain. “Doing things I like. Playing old records. Cooking things I used to eat with James.”
Remus’s voice was low, thoughtful. “She’s trying, Sirius.”
“I don’t know why,” Sirius admitted after a pause. “We both know what this is. I didn’t ask for—” He stopped, exhaling. “She deserves someone who looks at her properly. I can’t force that.”
Your heart sank before he even finished. You moved away before you could hear Remus’s reply, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.
That night, you said nothing at dinner. Neither did he.
When he reached across the table to refill your glass, his hand brushed yours by accident. He looked up, startled — and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression, something softer than pity, something almost human.
But then it was gone. He drew back, clearing his throat. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said.
“I’m just tired,” you answered, forcing a small smile.
He nodded, as if that explained everything.
Later, when you lay beside him in the dark, listening to the faint sound of his breathing, you wondered if he’d ever notice you for more than the space you occupied — if there was ever going to be a day when being his wife didn’t feel like pretending to be someone else’s ghost.
And though you didn’t mean to, you whispered it into the night anyway.
“I wish you’d see me.”
He didn’t stir.
But in his sleep, Sirius shifted just slightly closer, his hand brushing yours beneath the sheets — unaware, unintentional, but enough to make your eyes sting all over again.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
For the first time in months, Sirius noticed you. Maybe it was because of the humility Remus gave him in conversation that night, or the small whispers of prayer from you that slipped into his mind as he slept beside you.
But he didn't see you properly, not the way a man notices a woman he’s in love with — but in fleeting, unguarded moments that slipped past his defenses before he could reason them away.
It started in the mornings.
He’d come downstairs to find you already awake, hair pinned back neatly, sunlight falling across your face as you poured tea. You’d glance up when you heard him, offering that same quiet smile — the one he’d always taken for politeness. But lately, he realized, it wasn’t polite at all. It was gentle. Earnest. Real.
He didn’t know when he’d stopped believing sincerity could exist in his world.
“Good morning,” you said one day, voice soft.
“Morning,” he replied automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitated before taking his cup. “You’re up early.”
“I wanted to watch the sunrise,” you said. “It’s clear today.”
He nodded, pretending he didn’t notice how peaceful you looked in that light, like you belonged to something he could never quite touch. He turned away before it could mean anything.
But it did.
He caught himself watching you sometimes. At dinner. In the garden. When you passed him a dish and your fingers brushed. There was no reason for it — no desire, no spark he could name. Just a strange, quiet awareness that had begun to unsettle him.
He’d been trying not to think about what Remus had said the other day.
“She’s trying, Sirius.”
He hadn’t meant to sound cold, but he knew he had. He hadn’t wanted a wife. He hadn’t wanted this. But now that he had it — now that you were here, so careful, so patient — something in him began to shift.
It made him uncomfortable.
Guilt had a way of doing that.
He started noticing details he’d missed before.
How you always tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were nervous. How you hummed softly while reading. How you looked up when he entered a room, like you were waiting for something — even if you didn’t expect it to come.
You never asked for more. Never demanded affection. You simply existed quietly beside him, filling the house with the sound of someone who was trying not to disturb.
He caught himself wondering what it would take to make you smile, really smile. Not the one you gave for the sake of peace, but something that reached your eyes. And then he’d curse himself for caring, because he wasn’t supposed to.
Not like that.
One evening, he came home earlier than usual. You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, legs folded beneath you, an open book in your lap. You looked up, startled, when you saw him.
“Oh,” you said, standing too quickly. “You’re home early.”
He gave a small shrug, shedding his coat. “Thought I’d give Kreacher the night off from cursing me.”
You smiled faintly. “He does seem to enjoy that.”
For the first time, Sirius chuckled — a real, genuine sound. You blinked, as though you hadn’t heard it before. Maybe you hadn’t.
He moved closer, leaning against the mantel. “What are you reading?”
You showed him the cover. “Something Muggle. A novel about second chances.”
He tilted his head. “Do they get one?”
“I’m not sure yet.” You looked down, tracing the page. “But I hope they do.”
Something about that, the quiet longing in your tone, stuck with him. He nodded slowly, eyes lingering on you longer than they should have.
You turned back to your book, pretending not to notice.
The next day, he found himself in Diagon Alley without a plan. He’d meant to pick up parchment and ink. Somehow, he ended up in a small shop that sold both Muggle and wizarding books. He wasn’t sure why he was there, but when he saw a display of novels near the window, his hand moved before his mind caught up.
He bought one. A simple paperback — something about a woman who wanted to be seen.
That night, he left it on the armchair beside your favorite reading spot. He didn’t say a word. You didn’t mention it either, but the next morning, he noticed the book was gone — and a small vase of fresh flowers sat on his desk in return.
Neither of you acknowledged the exchange. You didn’t need to. It was the first unspoken language you’d shared since your wedding day.
After that, things changed in subtle ways.
Sirius lingered at breakfast a little longer. You waited up for him a little later. Conversations stretched a bit past formality. Once, his hand brushed yours as he handed you a cup, and instead of pulling away, he let the contact linger — a second too long, not enough to be called affection, but enough to make you look up.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing beside him. He thought about your whisper from nights before — the one he’d half-heard in the dark, soft and almost broken.
I wish you’d see me.
He hadn’t meant to hear it. He’d been half-asleep, mind adrift. But he’d heard it, and it stayed with him.
He turned slightly, looking at you in the faint moonlight. Your back was to him, shoulders rising and falling in steady rhythm. You looked peaceful. He wondered if you ever dreamt of something better. Someone better.
He reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.
You stirred slightly but didn’t wake.
“Maybe I do see you,” he whispered.
It wasn’t quite true yet, but it was closer than yesterday.
He lay back, eyes open in the dark, wondering what it meant that he finally cared.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The first thing you noticed was how quiet you’d become.
Not the ordinary kind of quiet that had defined your marriage since the beginning — the polite, companionable silence of two people pretending they were fine. No, this was different. This was the sort of quiet that pressed down like a fog, heavy and endless, swallowing the edges of every word you tried to say.
It wasn’t that you’d stopped trying overnight. It was more like the effort had finally worn you thin.
There had been hope, once. Little, foolish hope — fragile as spun glass. You’d let it grow in secret, fed by small gestures and half-seconds of warmth. The book he left for you, the soft look in his eyes that night by the fire, the way he said good morning with something almost tender behind it. You had clung to those moments like a lifeline.
But days turned into weeks, and the small warmth faded back into routine. He was kind, yes. Always kind. He would hold the door for you, ask after your day, pour you wine at dinner. But kindness wasn’t closeness. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t seeing you.
And maybe, you thought one evening as you brushed your hair in the mirror, maybe it never would be.
You stared at your reflection — the strands falling neatly around your shoulders, the gown you’d chosen carefully because you knew he liked the color blue. You looked… fine. Ordinary. Unremarkable. You wondered if that was what he saw when he looked at you — something decent, polite, unmemorable.
The sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the hall. Sirius was home.
You straightened instinctively, brushing invisible wrinkles from your dress. It was pathetic, this reflex, the way your body still wanted to impress him, even when your heart knew better.
He came in, shaking off his coat, smelling faintly of the outside — cold air, tobacco, a trace of something smoky. His hair was mussed, his expression tired.
“You’re home late,” you said softly.
“Order meeting,” he replied, voice distracted. He glanced at you briefly, then away again. “You didn’t have to wait up.”
“I wasn’t,” you lied.
He nodded absently, already halfway to the stairs. “Long day. I’ll see you in the morning.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught. You just nodded, watching him disappear up the steps. The ache that followed was familiar -- dull, patient, merciless.
That night, when you joined him in bed, he was already asleep. Or pretending to be. You lay on your side, facing away from him, and realized you hadn’t really been touched, truly touched, in weeks. Not since that last night he’d reached for you out of obligation. Not since you’d stopped pretending it meant something.
Something inside you broke quietly, the way glass breaks under water — soundless, invisible, absolute.
The next morning, you didn’t make his tea.
You didn’t wait for him at breakfast or join him in the study. You spent the day in the garden instead, sleeves rolled up, hands in the dirt. The cold bit at your fingers, but the ache was grounding — honest in a way nothing else in that house was.
When Sirius passed by the window that afternoon, he paused. You were kneeling by the rosebushes, brushing soil from your palms, the faintest trace of color in your cheeks. He hadn’t seen you like that before — not the quiet, graceful figure who filled his house like furniture, but someone alive. Someone else.
He almost stepped outside. Almost. But the uncertainty stopped him, as it always did. He told himself you wanted space. He told himself you looked content. He told himself a dozen things to make the hesitation easier.
You didn’t see him watching. You didn’t care if he did.
By evening, you were exhausted — not from work, but from feeling. You had spent so long trying to be good, to be patient, to deserve his attention. And for what? The house still echoed the same way it always had.
When you came in for dinner, Sirius was at the table, a glass of wine in hand. He looked up, startled — maybe because you hadn’t joined him in the morning, maybe because you hadn’t waited.
“You were gone all day,” he said.
You nodded, sitting down without meeting his gaze. “I needed air.”
“Something wrong?”
You gave a faint laugh, bitter and soft. “You’d notice?”
The question hung in the air. He frowned slightly, not defensive, just lost. “Of course I would.”
You looked at him then, really looked, and realized how tired he seemed. The faint lines around his eyes, the weight in his shoulders. You used to think that if he looked at you like that, you’d feel closer to him. But all it did now was make you feel smaller.
“I don’t think you would,” you said finally. “Not really.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
You stood before he could find them, gathering your plate. “I’m going to bed.”
“You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly.
“I’m not hungry.”
Your footsteps echoed on the stairs, steady, final.
In your room, you undressed in silence. The mirror reflected someone you didn’t recognize anymore — someone who’d tried so hard to become what he might want that she’d forgotten who she was before.
You thought of the girl you’d been before the marriage, the one who still believed in love, in choices, in warmth that came freely instead of being earned. You wondered if she’d hate you now.
Sirius didn’t come up right away. He sat alone at the table long after the candles burned down, your words replaying in his mind. You’d notice?
It wasn’t an accusation — it was too soft for that. It was worse. It was the sound of someone who had given up.
When he finally came to bed, you were already asleep, or at least pretending to be. He hesitated at the doorway, looking at you the way one looks at something fragile, afraid to touch it.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But he didn’t know where to start. So instead, he sat at the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
You opened your eyes then, just barely — enough to see the shape of him in the dark, hunched and lost.
He didn’t see you looking.
And for the first time, you didn’t feel the urge to comfort him. You just closed your eyes again, letting the distance settle like dust between you.
Maybe it was too late.
Maybe he’d finally started to notice, but you’d already run out of hope to give.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Sirius woke to an empty bed.
The sheets beside him were still faintly warm, the faint indentation of your body visible against the linen, but you were gone. The house was quiet in that thick, unsettling way that meant something had shifted. It wasn’t the usual morning silence — the calm, habitual hush that came before the day began. No. This was absence.
He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The space between you felt wider now, heavy with things unsaid.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed you pulling away. He had, in the way one notices a draft under a door, or a missing sound they’d long since tuned out. It had started small: the empty teacup that used to wait for him on the desk, the soft hums that no longer filled the corridor, the way your chair at dinner was often left empty, replaced by a polite note on parchment: Ate earlier. Don’t wait up.
He told himself it was nothing.
That you needed space.
That it was better this way.
But now, standing alone in the kitchen, with no trace of your quiet domestic presence, Sirius felt something sharp twist in his chest — not guilt exactly, not yet, but something close to it.
You had always been there, he realized.
In the rhythm of the house, the steadiness of each day. In the way the curtains were drawn back each morning to let in light. In the quiet meals that appeared when he forgot to eat. In the peace that existed despite him — despite his ghosts, despite the coldness he’d let settle between you.
You hadn’t asked for much. You’d never demanded affection or comfort or truth. You’d just stayed. That was what made it worse.
He remembered your voice at dinner, low and tired.
“You’d notice?”
He had no answer for it then. He still didn’t.
Because the truth was simple: he hadn’t.
He’d built walls long before your marriage, and he’d let you live behind them like a polite stranger, all under the pretense of sparing you — as if indifference was a kindness.
But when had it turned into cruelty? When had he become his own family’s ghost story, a man who could not love the person he’d vowed to protect?
By midday, Sirius found himself pacing the halls. He told himself he was looking for a book, but his eyes kept catching on traces of you instead.
A ribbon left on the windowsill.
A half-read novel by the chair.
A faint scent of lavender that lingered on the air.
He followed it into the garden.
You were there, kneeling among the rosebushes again, wearing that worn cardigan he always thought was too big for you. Your hair was loose today, a few strands caught by the wind. You looked… peaceful, he thought. And that was what scared him most.
“Didn’t think you liked the cold,” he said quietly.
You turned your head slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. “It’s better than sitting inside.”
He hesitated at the doorway, hands deep in his pockets. “You should’ve woken me.”
“I didn’t see the point.”
The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything she could have shouted.
He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat tightened. So instead, he watched as you stood, brushing dirt from your palms. There was no anger in you, no spark left to fight with. Just quiet exhaustion.
“Y/N,” he started, but you were already walking past him toward the house.
“I’ll have dinner ready later,” you said.
And then, after a pause: “You don’t have to join me if you’re busy.”
He turned to watch you go, a strange panic settling in his chest.
For months he’d thought this distance was safety — that as long as you were polite and calm, things were fine. But now he realized how silence could rot a home faster than any fight ever could.
That evening, he didn’t go out. He sat by the fire instead, alone, his mind restless. The house felt too large without you moving through it. Too hollow.
He thought about the little things you’d done — all the things he’d dismissed without a second glance. The dinners that had been for him. The music that had been his. The small, thoughtful gestures that had gone unnoticed because he’d decided they didn’t matter.
How many had there been?
How many times had he looked at you and chosen not to see?
He thought of you sitting across from him at dinner, wearing that blue dress — the one that had made him pause for a heartbeat before looking away. You’d looked beautiful that night. He hadn’t said a word.
A low ache formed in his chest. Regret, sharp and unfamiliar.
When the clock struck ten, he went upstairs. The door to your room, your room now, he realized, was closed. A line had been drawn, silently but surely.
He knocked once.
“Y/N?”
Silence.
He almost turned away, but then your voice came, quiet and careful: “Yes?”
“I… wanted to say goodnight.”
There was a pause, long enough for him to feel foolish. Then: “Goodnight, Sirius.”
No bitterness. No warmth. Just polite distance, the same tone he’d used with you for months.
He closed his eyes, hand still resting against the door.
He had no one to blame but himself.
Later, lying awake in the dark, he couldn’t shake the thought that this was how people left you. Not in anger or grief — but by degrees. Slowly, quietly, until one day you looked up and realized they weren’t waiting for you anymore.
And maybe that was what scared him most of all.
Because for the first time since your wedding day, Sirius realized he didn’t want you to leave.
Not the version of you who sat across from him like a stranger, but the one who had tried — the one who’d smiled at him in the sunlight and hoped he’d look back.
He’d missed her.
He’d missed you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The air in Grimmauld Place had grown thick with silence. Not the cold, angry kind that follows a fight, but the kind that grows quietly, like dust settling on things left untouched.
You had stopped trying to fill the void between you and Sirius. The effort had become too exhausting, and each attempt had been met with the same soft, polite indifference that had slowly chipped away at your hope.
He’d always been civil, even kind at times. That was the worst part. Sirius wasn’t cruel. He just wasn’t there.
He sat across from you at dinner most nights, eating quietly, sometimes talking about work or things that didn’t matter. And you’d nod, smile faintly, sip your wine, and tell yourself you were fine with that. Because if you didn’t, you might shatter.
Lately, though, you’d begun to fade in your own home. You dressed simply, you spoke less. The fire in you, that quiet but persistent desire to be seen had dimmed.
You woke one morning before him, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. His arm was draped across your waist, heavy and absent, like muscle memory rather than affection. He looked peaceful, and you almost envied that.
You slipped out from beneath his arm carefully, dressing in silence. You didn’t bother with your hair the way you used to, nor with the perfume he once called “nice.”
You made breakfast. For both of you, as always. But you didn’t wait for him to join. You ate quietly by the window while the sky outside stayed pale and sleepy.
When he finally came down, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, you barely looked up.
“Morning,” he said, voice still low from sleep.
“Morning,” you murmured, setting your cup down.
He hesitated. Normally, you’d have smiled — asked about his plans, tried to make conversation. Instead, you stood, placed your cup in the sink, and said, “I’ll be out for a while.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Out? Where?”
“Just… out.”
And then you left.
That became the new rhythm. You spent your days wandering the nearby streets, visiting small cafés, sitting in bookshops until the afternoon light began to fade. You didn’t buy anything. You just… existed somewhere other than that cold, echoing house.
When you returned, he was often gone, sometimes at headquarters, sometimes out with James or Remus. When he was home, the two of you exchanged words out of habit more than desire.
He noticed the shift, but he didn’t know what to do with it.
He’d catch you humming softly while cleaning the sitting room, only to stop when he entered. You no longer asked him if he wanted tea, or if he’d eaten. You didn’t press your hand against his arm in passing. You didn’t fill the silence with pleasantries.
You’d gone quiet.
And somehow, that silence was louder than anything he’d ever heard.
One evening, he found you in the study, seated by the fire. You didn’t look up as he entered. Your book was open, but your eyes weren’t moving across the page.
He lingered by the door, watching you for a long moment. The firelight made your features soft, tired, distant. You looked… older. Not in years, but in weariness.
“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he said finally.
“I have.”
“Everything alright?”
You nodded once. “Yes.”
He waited for more, but nothing came.
“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “Did I do something?”
You blinked, finally looking at him. “Do something?”
He shifted, uneasy under your calm tone. “You’re… different.”
You closed your book gently, setting it aside. “I’ve stopped trying, Sirius.”
His brow creased. “Trying what?”
“To be someone you might notice.”
He froze, lips parting, but you went on before he could speak.
“I’ve spent months trying to make this… marriage something more than a name on paper. I tried to make you comfortable, to be kind, to be what I thought you wanted. But it’s exhausting trying to be chosen by someone who never wanted you to begin with.”
He exhaled slowly, guilt flickering across his face, but you weren’t finished.
“I don’t blame you,” you continued, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “You didn’t ask for this either. I know that. But I can’t keep pretending that this life doesn’t ache. I can’t keep setting a place for you in my heart when you’ve never once stepped inside it.”
Sirius’s throat worked around words he couldn’t form.
You stood, smoothing the front of your skirt. “You don’t need to say anything. I’m not angry. I’m just… tired.”
And with that, you left him in the flickering firelight, the faint scent of your lavender soap fading in the air.
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
He lay awake staring at the ceiling, the same way you had that morning. The bed felt too large, too quiet. For the first time, he realized he hadn’t actually seen you in weeks. Not really.
He thought of the mornings you used to hum while setting out breakfast, the gentle curve of your smile when he came home late. He thought of your perfume, the way it lingered on his robes even when he didn’t notice.
He’d taken it all for granted.
Now, all that warmth had gone—and the house felt like what it truly was: cold stone and obligation.
And Sirius Black, who had once sworn he would never be like the rest of his family, realized with a sick twist in his chest that he had become exactly like them.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Sirius returned home one late afternoon, the sound of the front door closing softly behind him. He didn’t slam it, didn’t curse under his breath about the endless creak of the hinges like he usually did.
There was something quieter about him. Something careful.
You noticed it first in the way his boots didn’t drag against the floors; how his voice, when he greeted you, didn’t echo through the hall like an afterthought.
“Evening,” he said from the doorway of the drawing room.
You looked up from the book in your lap, blinking at him. “Evening.”
He hesitated before stepping in. You could tell immediately that something was different—he didn’t move with the same restless energy, that constant need to fill the silence. Instead, he seemed almost… hesitant.
He looked at you as though seeing you properly for the first time in a long while.
“I saw you walking back from the market earlier,” he said after a pause. “Did you... buy flowers?”
Your brow furrowed slightly. “Yes. Just a few.”
“I haven’t seen flowers in the house for months,” he murmured, glancing toward the vase on the mantle. The lilacs were small, delicate, the faintest trace of life against the gloom of Grimmauld Place.
You didn’t answer.
Sirius shifted, running a hand through his hair. “They look nice,” he said softly.
You nodded. “Thank you.”
The silence stretched thin between you, full of unspoken things.
Over the next few days, you noticed little things, small shifts that didn’t make sense.
The breakfast dishes were washed before you came downstairs one morning. He started leaving earlier, but returned at more reasonable hours. He no longer reeked of smoke and firewhisky. He lingered near the kitchen sometimes, asking if you needed help.
It wasn’t much. But it was something.
And you didn’t know what to do with that.
You had built your own armor, piece by piece. Indifference had become your refuge. Now, suddenly, he was showing cracks in his own, and you couldn’t decide whether to look through them or turn away.
One afternoon, you were in the library, dusting shelves half-heartedly when he appeared in the doorway again.
He stood there a moment, arms crossed loosely, watching you. “You still clean in here?”
“Someone has to,” you replied, voice even.
He smiled faintly. “Suppose that’s true.”
You turned back to the shelves. His footsteps approached slowly until he stood beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne — something he hadn’t worn in so long.
“You know,” he said quietly, “this house never feels alive unless you’re in it.”
You froze, your hand pausing mid-wipe.
It was the sort of thing he might’ve said once, offhandedly charming— but this time, it sounded earnest.
You didn’t look at him. “You don’t have to say things like that, Sirius.”
“I’m not saying it because I have to.”
You swallowed. “Then why now?”
He hesitated, and for a moment you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, softly:
“Because I’ve been a fool. And I don’t think I realized how much until you stopped looking at me.”
Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned to face him. His expression was unreadable — no smirk, no easy charm. Just quiet sincerity that unnerved you more than anything.
“I didn’t think you wanted me to look at you,” you said carefully.
“I didn’t know what I wanted,” he admitted, voice low. “But I do know that this house feels colder without you in it. That’s not nothing.”
You stared at him, unsure what to believe. His words sounded genuine, but you’d built too much of yourself around disappointment to trust the warmth too quickly.
So you said nothing.
After a long moment, he nodded once, as if accepting that. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll give you space.”
And then he left — quietly, like a ghost who knew better than to haunt too loudly.
That night, you lay in bed on your side, staring at the wall. Sirius came in late but sober, moving carefully so as not to disturb you.
You pretended to be asleep.
You felt the mattress dip as he settled beside you. Then, for the first time in months, his hand hovered uncertainly over your back. It didn’t touch — but it stayed there, as though he wanted to bridge the distance but didn’t yet feel entitled to.
And strangely, you found yourself listening to his breathing.
You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. But somewhere deep inside, something fragile stirred, a flicker of something that was not yet forgiveness, but not entirely indifference either.
In the morning, he was gone again, but the lilacs had been replaced with new ones.
And on the kitchen counter sat a folded note in Sirius’s handwriting:
“I know I can’t undo the years I wasted. But I’m here now. For whatever that’s worth.”
You stared at it for a long time, unsure whether to smile or cry.
Because after all this time, you weren’t sure if it was worth anything at all — or if it might finally be the start of something real.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The house had been quieter lately, but not empty, more like the air had shifted into something waiting.
You could feel it every time Sirius walked into a room — the tentative calm that followed him, like he was trying not to disturb something fragile.
It was strange to witness. For years, you’d grown used to the thunder of his presence: the loud laughter that filled corridors, the careless charm, the weight of his footsteps echoing off stone floors. Now, that recklessness had been replaced by patience.
You didn’t know what to do with patience.
You decided to test it. Not cruelly, not to punish him — but to see if the new calm he wore so carefully was real, or just another mood that would pass like all the others.
It began with breakfast.
You rose early, as always, and made tea. You didn’t expect him to join you — he rarely did — but halfway through your toast, you heard him coming down the stairs.
He looked surprised to see you still at the table. You normally finished before he ever appeared.
“Morning,” he said gently.
“Morning.”
He hesitated, then gestured toward the seat across from you. “Mind if I…?”
You nodded once. “Go ahead.”
He poured himself tea, quiet and careful, and when he reached for the sugar, you noticed something: he’d started taking three spoonful's.
You blinked. “You like it sweet now?”
He glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Trying to be less predictable.”
You huffed a soft, unexpected laugh — small, but real. And he looked almost startled by it.
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp this time. It was calm, like two people finally learning how to breathe in the same space.
You began noticing him more after that, not as the man you’d built from memory, but as someone different.
He’d fix little things around the house: oil a hinge, mend a loose latch, clean the old family frames that had gathered dust. You’d walk into a room to find him standing quietly, sleeves rolled up, hair falling over his face, muttering at stubborn screws or paint chips.
You didn’t speak much, but you lingered.
One evening, you caught him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, trying to cook. The air smelled faintly of garlic and smoke. He looked up when you entered, eyes widening slightly.
“I’m aware this looks like a crime scene,” he said, motioning to the pan.
You leaned against the counter. “That’s one word for it.”
“Remus swore I could make pasta,” he muttered, poking it with the spoon like it had personally offended him.
“Remus has too much faith.”
Sirius laughed, properly laughed, and it startled you. It wasn’t loud or wild like before; it was softer, almost shy. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You could always show me how it’s actually done.”
You tilted your head. “You’d let me?”
“I’d beg you, if that’s what it takes.”
So you did. You took the spoon from his hand, brushing fingers by accident, and tried not to think about how that tiny contact made something flicker in your chest.
The nights that followed were calmer. You still slept with space between you, but it didn’t feel like a void anymore.
Sometimes, you’d find him reading in bed when you came in. He’d glance up, offer a quiet “goodnight,” and you’d answer without the cold edge that used to linger on your tongue.
There were no grand gestures, no sudden declarations. Just small moments that began to stitch themselves into the rhythm of your days.
One afternoon, you found yourself walking with him into the garden. The sun had made a rare appearance through the London haze, and Sirius looked almost younger in the light.
He paused beside the lilacs you’d planted, crouching slightly to touch a leaf.
“They’re surviving,” he said, almost to himself.
“They’re resilient,” you murmured. “I think they learned to adapt to this place.”
He glanced at you then, eyes soft. “You’re talking about the flowers, or yourself?”
You felt your throat tighten, but you didn’t look away. “Both, maybe.”
His smile faltered into something sad and fond. “You shouldn’t have had to adapt to me.”
You didn’t answer right away. The breeze rustled the lilacs. “People do what they must.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood beside you in the sunlight until the moment felt whole again.
That night, you stood at the vanity brushing your hair. Sirius sat on the edge of the bed behind you, quiet, hands clasped between his knees.
You met his gaze in the mirror for a second — long enough to see hesitation in his eyes.
He rose slowly, stepping behind you. His reflection hovered close, uncertain.
“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the brush in your hand.
Your heart stuttered. You hesitated, then passed it to him.
He began to brush through your hair carefully, gently, as if afraid you might break if he pressed too hard. His touch was slow, deliberate, reverent in a way that made your chest ache.
It wasn’t intimate in the usual sense. It was quiet, almost sacred.
When he was done, he set the brush down and said softly, “You deserve more than what I’ve given you.”
You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. “Maybe,” you murmured. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”
His breath caught. You stood, brushing past him gently, and slipped into bed.
For the first time in years, when he followed, you didn’t turn away.
You weren’t ready to believe in him fully. Not yet. But you no longer flinched from the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was trying.
And for now, that was enough.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It had been weeks since Sirius’s quiet transformation began, and though the walls of Grimmauld Place still loomed heavy with its shadows, something in the air had shifted entirely.
You felt it every time he was near, that almost-electric awareness, the ache of something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface. You’d begun to move around each other like magnets, careful not to touch, careful not to draw too close, because you both knew what might happen if you did.
But tonight, the restraint frayed.
The storm outside had rolled in quietly, the kind that hummed low through the walls, making the lamps flicker and the air hum. You were in the study, pretending to read, the sound of rain tapping against the window.
Sirius stood by the fireplace, half in shadow, his shirt sleeves rolled, the amber glow cutting along his jaw. You could feel his eyes on you — not the absent kind of looking he used to do, but something heavy and searching.
You turned a page you didn’t read. “You’re staring.”
He didn’t deny it. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t playful. “Not enough, maybe.”
You looked up then, meeting his gaze. There it was — the weight of years spent circling one another, all the longing and exhaustion and quiet affection tangled into something that finally demanded to be seen.
“Why now?” you asked softly. “Why only start trying when I finally stopped?”
Sirius took a slow step closer, then another, his voice low. “Because I was afraid of wanting something I didn’t think I could have.”
“And what is it you want now?”
He was close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, the scent of rain and smoke in his clothes. He looked down at you, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You,” he said. “But not the way I was supposed to. The way I do now.”
Something inside you cracked — a quiet, fragile thing that had been holding everything in place for years. You rose slowly from your chair, and suddenly, the space between you was gone.
He reached out first, fingers brushing against your jaw as if asking permission. When you didn’t pull away, he cupped your face fully, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like you mean it.”
“I do,” he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t gentle at first, it was desperate, all the years of silence and unspoken words breaking open in one sharp exhale.
His hands tangled in your hair, your fingers caught against his collar, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting a lifetime to remember how. Lips parted, tongues grazing each others teeth in rushed decisions, hands gripping each other as if never needing anything more in the world.
The storm outside cracked loud against the windows, but neither of you moved from each other.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.
“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured.
“Then earn it,” you said, voice trembling but sure.
Something in him broke at that , you felt it in the way he kissed you again, slower this time, as though memorizing the taste of forgiveness. His hands slid around your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against yours.
You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. You just let yourself fall into the warmth you’d both been starving for.
The book slipped forgotten to the floor. The fire cracked and flared. His lips found yours again and again, hungry, reverent, lingering — each kiss more certain than the last, each breath a confession he couldn’t speak aloud.
When you finally broke apart, neither of you spoke for a long moment. His thumb traced your bottom lip, still swollen from the kiss, and he smiled faintly.
“I think,” he said softly, “this is the first time this house has ever felt alive.”
You pressed your forehead against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms came around you.
For the first time, there was no distance left to bridge.
And in that quiet, storm-lit room, the two of you finally let the walls crumble — not in anger or obligation, but in something that felt dangerously close to love.
Summary: Fred's love language is physical touch and things and unexpected feelings surface when Luna points that out.
Word count: 3300 (went a little overboard for these shorts)
Masterlist, and other love language fanfictions: Acts of service
“Don’t you ever notice how Fred can’t keep his hands off of you?” Luna asks me. Another attempt to distract from the work in front of us. I don’t bother giving her an answer, “Luna, you’ve got to focus on these charms or else you won’t get a good grade tomorrow.”
“I don’t notice him doing it with anyone else.” She continues, completely ignoring me. If only someone told me at the beginning of the year that tutoring Luna would be this difficult. I say, “Luna, you are very very smart and you’re incredible when it comes to things like herbology or magical creatures, but you could be doing incredible in all your subjects if you would just-”
“There is my favourite lady!”
“Oh! Hi Fred.” I say, surprised, looking up seeing Fred grinning with his hand on my shoulder. He hops down on the couch and sits next to me, his arm fully around my shoulder now. Luna raises an eyebrow and looks at me with a soft but pointed smile. I suddenly feel very aware of every part of my body that is touching his.
“How does the fat lady feel about letting a Ravenclaw enter the lion’s common room?” Fred asks, looking at Luna, shuffling closer to me. Our legs and sides flushed together now. Luna replies, “Oh, she doesn’t mind at all. We sort of got a deal going.”
“What deal?” I ask, curious. Lifting Fred’s arm from over my shoulder and placing it on his lap as inconspicuously as I possibly can. Luna notices of course and purses her lips before saying, “I have the same deal with all the paintings but I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I was told that if you expose a deal then your head will start growing.”
“Okay then, we should get back to charms.” I say, leaning forward out of Fred’s touch to reach towards the table to get a textbook. I hope that Fred doesn’t notice that when I settle back down it's inches away from him. I never noticed how physically close Fred and I always are. Does it make people uncomfortable? Is it normal? And is he actually only like that with me like Luna says?
“Okay so at the rate we are moving at I think it would be best if we also did a quick morning revision-”
“Hey, are you okay?” Fred whispers in my ear. When he is this close I can’t help but notice all the freckles dotted on his cheeks and nose, does anyone else see these freckles the way I do? Ugh, it’s so stupid to even think about. I answer, quickly, maybe even a little bit too quickly. “Yeah, why?”
“No reason.”
***
Breakfast is always hectic at Hogwarts. People falling into their plates of cereal because of a lack of sleep, people earring at a speed that is definitely a choking hazard because they’re late for something, and some people, much like myself right now are cramming for an exam that is in a few minutes, except that it’s not my exam.
“Remember an invisibility enchantment depends on the type of object as well as the location of the object while a cloaking enchantment depends only on the type of the object.” I repeat out loud from the textbook while Luna eats some fruit rather quickly before the exam.
Despite her almost always calm demeanor I can tell that she’s feeling a little nervous about the exam, you always notice a little less twinkle in her eyes and a lot more fidgeting with her uniform or the long eccentric earrings. I reassure her, “You’re going to do great, okay? Flitwick’s exams are easy, make sure you keep your eye on the clock.”
“And remember, when in doubt pick B.” Fred pipes in from beside me just arriving at the Great Hall with George. George waves at me in greeting and sits opposite to me, beside Luna. Fred presses a kiss to my cheek whispering a good morning. He only waves at Luna, but I guess that’s only natural they’re not as close and Luna is much younger.
“What does that mean?” Luna asks Fred. He answers, “We’ve noticed that our dear Professor Flitwick tends to have the answer be B more often than not.”
“And how exactly are you sure of that?” I ask the twins and George answers this time. “We’ve tested it out, every year, Professor Flitwick does at least one multiple choice exam and one of us always picks B for all our answers blindly, and I don’t believe either of us has ever gotten a score less than 50% in any of those exams. Have we, Fred?”
“I don’t believe we have, George.” Fred replies after swallowing down what must be three strawberries at the same time. He moans in delight and raises one up for me, he says, “You have to try these, they’re so good.”
I feel the urge to eat it from his fingers but then I stop. Was I always so used to eating out of his hands? Isn’t that too intimate for just friends? I pluck it out of his fingers and eat it myself. I don’t miss the frown that quickly covers his face then leaves.
“What are we discussing this fine morning?” Angelina says, walking closer to where we are sitting and sits beside Fred. All of us wave at her as a good morning, including Fred. Now, Angie has been Fred’s friend for longer than I have and I would argue that they’re even closer than Fred and I, being on the Quidditch team together and everything, so why didn’t she get the greeting that I got?
“Just telling Luna about picking B on her charms exam.” George answers and Angie nods her head while filling up her plate with some bread and cheese. She says, “They’re absolutely wright about that theory, Luna. And you should also start picking D on McGonagall’s exams too.”
The twins nod along and I fea that Luna is taking their advice to ehart. I reach over the table and grab her hand in mine. I say, “Follow your gut, whether your gut tells you to pick B or any other letter. Now go, wouldn’t want you to be late.”
“Okay, thank you everyone. Thank you especially y/n.” She says, standing up swinging her decorated satchel over her shoulder. We all wish her luck and say goodbye. A few moments pass and I try to make it obvious that I’m sneaking glances at Fred. I wonder why he’s so close to me. Could it possibly be…no NO! No, no, no, no, no, no, not possible. We’ve been friends for years now. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, it could ruin the wonderful friendship that we’ve built. No, I’m just hallucinating, I’m letting what Luna said bother me, and it shouldn't. I have no proof, noooooo proof.
“Heyyyy, hey, love!” Fred says, waving his hand in front of my face. I only then notice that I’ve been openly staring at him with a look that can only be described as pure shock and horror. I look away immediately, my mouth turning into a line and my cheeks beet red. George narrows his eyes at me and I look away quickly.
Why am I acting so awkwardly? This is Fred, and Fred is my friend, unless…no. I’m not even going to entertain that thought, but suddenly, I can’t stand even being around Fred. My face is too red, and my palms are too sweaty and I think I’m actually more nervous than I was before NEWTs last year. I stand up abruptly, pushing the table slightly, and the cutlery smacks against each other creating a small ding.
“I’m going to go, I wouldn’t want to be late for class.” I explain, I reach out to grab my satchel from beneath the bench. Fred reaches out and steadies me with my hand. He says, “Class isn’t for another twenty minutes. You have plenty of time.”
“My class is different.” Different, different, everything is so different now. My stomach lurches at the contact of our hands, and when did he even interlace our fingers, has it always been this way? Has he always been this affectionate? And why just with me?
I leave the Great Hall in a flash. My sneakers squeaking at my quick steps. I could faintly hear Fred say to Angie in confusion, ‘We have the same class.’ I only stop the manic walking once I’m far away enough to catch my breath and sag against my wall. I would be embarrassed about the way I was acting if I could stop having a heart attack. Why does this matter so much?
“So you know.”
My head snaps to the back to George standing there with a smug look on his face, and his arms folded in front of his chest. I turn around to face him, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “Know what?”
“Ohhh, don’t play dumb with me. I could tell.” George says, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. I mirror his stance and fold my arms too. I’m not sure I know anything but charms at this moment. I certainly don’t know anything about anything that George specifically would want me to know, and certainly nothing about his other half.
“You finally figured out that Fred is miserably in love with you.” He finally admits, and I suck in a deep breath and the confession. Hearing the idea out loud puts a knot in my throat. I shake my head furiously and tighten the fold of my arms, only shuffling slightly on my feet. I say, “He’s not, he can’t, he…he wouldn’t want you saying this to me when it’s not true.”
George gives me a look, his arms falling to his sides. I may not know George as well as I know Fred but I know enough, I know that look enough to know that he’s saying the truth. I huff a deep breath. How can things change so quickly? I take a few steps to my left and sag against a wall. I’m glad everyone is inside so that they won’t witness this life changing moment of mine.
George leans against the wall beside me. I can see the way his eyebrows furrow. What’s going to happen now? It can’t go back to the way it was, I can’t ignore the fact that my best friend likes me, or according to George, loves me. He questions, “It can’t be that bad, can it?”
“It’s just so different now.” I say, and I slide down the wall, all the way to the floor ignoring all the dirt that must be on these floors and the way the fabric of my robe bunches up behind me ever so slightly. George says, “It doesn’t have to be.”
“It all depends on if you like him back.” He adds. I don’t think I can give him an answer if I tried. I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone before. I don’t know. I turn my head to the other side. I scoff, “You know I’m not good at this stuff George.”
“Trust me, I know.” He teases shoving my shoulder playfully. He says probably recalling the Yule Ball when I spent the entire night by their sides because I had failed to get a date, not because of lack of offers but due to lack of me accepting anyone, I was too busy, stuttering and tripping over my feet.
“I think you should do what you do best, try to understand it, use facts, maybe even use those lists you like.” He suggests, and I give him a small smile. Maybe I should figure out if I like Fred frist before rejecting even the thought of his feelings. I lean my head against the wall, close my eyes and try to think-
“What are you both doing here?”
I see Fred jogging up from the Great Hall, he has a wide beaming smile on his face. I sit up straight and George clears his throat before saying, “Just chatting.”
Fred pretends to check an invisible watch on his wrist that he would have if he cared about being on time for anything. He reaches out his hand for me to take, saying, “I think you’re actually going to be late for class now.”
I slip my hand into his, and he pulls me up in one quick swift motion, a little bit too swift that I clash into his chest a little. I wonder if he feels the same twists that my stomach makes. I tease, “As if you care about that stuff.”
He shrugs his shoulders and says as if it’s obvious, “You do.”
***
I’ve never been much of a person that enjoys Quidditch. I never really enjoyed watching sports and dressing all up in my house colors and cheering the team on while I’m shoved in between two other gryffindors screaming around me. I do make exceptions, and those are the times when Fred and George are playing.
“WHOOOOO!!! GO GRYFFINDOR, GO FRED! GO GEORGE!” I shout over the crowd and clap my hands hard together, exactly like a sports lover. Hermione sits next to me, clapping but much more gently. Gryffindor are just about to win, only one more goal left to score, or Potter could catch the snitch.
“HARRY POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH!” Lee shouts from the commentator’s booth. And the Gryffindor team all start high-fiving each other on their brooms. In a whirl of adrenaline and excitement Ron hugs Hermione, and they both proceed to pat each other on the back gently with their cheeks red when they part.
I see Fred flying over to the stands where I’m sitting. Eyes skimming the crowd until they land on me. His face is red and there are droplets of sweat on his forehead with his hairline just a bit damp. He’s holding his beater’s club in one hand and holding onto the broom with the other. He shouts, “Come on! Let’s celebrate.”
“I’ll meet you down.” I reply, trying to make it through the people in the stands to meet him down at the pitch. He shakes his head and draws closer, careful not to hit anyone with his broom or his feet. He pulls out a hand, and instinctively, I take it. He says, “There’s no time for that.”
Before I can process what that meant, I’m pulled upwards towards him. I let out a scream as he held me up with his hands. He places me in front of him, and he starts to fly down. I’ve never been a fan of flying. I shout, “FRED! You idiot, get me down. NOW!”
People shout congratulations to him as he flies over the crowd and as we land on the ground. As soon as my feet touch the pitch’s grass, I turn around and start smacking Fred’s shoulders. I scream between punches, “I-hate-you.”
He only grins in return. He throws his broom and the beater’s club to the side. He pulls me closer to him and pulls me into a hug. I wrap my arms around his back and he wraps his around my waist. He leans back, lifting my feet off the ground for a second then placing me back on the ground. And then he looks into my eyes, and my stomach flips, has he always looked at me like that? With that glimmer in his eyes? Have I always been this blind?
He lets go of one hand around my waist, as Lee comes from behind him and slaps his back in congratulations. The grin is wide on his face as members of the team come to celebrate one by one. Alicia, Angie, Potter, Hermione…and others. He high-fives them, some of them receive nods of appreciation but everyone gets that brilliant smile as his hand stays on my lower back.
They all head out of the pitch to shower and change their clothes and to no doubt get ready for a party in the common room. It’s only us and a few other people when I notice, and then have to ask. I squeeze his hand to grab his attention and say, “Hey Fred, why did you only hug me?”
He doesn’t expect the question. He looks around us, eyes wondering fumbling for a response, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. He says, “You’re my friend.”
“I mean, why did you only hug me? You didn’t hug any of your other friends like Angie or Lee.” I push, and I can see his cheeks getting red again this time not from the physical exhaustion of the game. He blinks a few times before saying, “You’re just different.”
My stomach flips again, and I just know that it’ll mean something if he says it. I ask, “Different how?”
His shoulders fall and he sucks in a deep breath. His mouth left open slightly and I look at him waiting for an answer. I’m so anxious I could break out into a sweat just from the expectation. His eyes turn helpless like he doesn’t know what to say. I add, “Do you like me, Fred?”
His eyes turn wide just ever so slightly, and he drops his hand from my side, lifting it up, to run his hand through his hair. The sweat made it cling to the rest of his hair, away from his forehead. I feel butterflies when he says, “Yes.”
The way he said it, so definitive, and so completely obvious like he’s never been sure of anything more in his life makes me feel sick. I have no idea if I want to throw up or if I want to throw my arms around him and pull him closer. ‘I think you should do what you do best, try to understand it.’ I recall George’s words.
The words come tumbling out of my mouth before I can think about them, “I’ve never been good at this kind of stuff, Fred. I don’t know if I’ve ever liked anyone, and I don’t really understand feelings that well, but I’m going to try to. I think I need time to figure it out, all I know is that I like spending time with you and most times I only want to be around you. That I trust you and that you’re my friend.”
I wish I could make out the look in his eyes, but I continue, “I sometimes get jealous when you and Angie talk about Quidditch and I can’t join in. And that…being with you scares me, but, I don’t know anyone else I’d want to spend my time with. I like how it feels when you’re around and when you’re touching me. And…I really want to kiss you.”
Fred doesn’t waste a second before he eliminates the space between us in a single step. Taking all the air from the world, and tipping me only a few centimetres back, placing his lips to mine. I have no idea where to put my hands, but Fred knows, and he slides his hand over my arm and guides my hands to his shoulders.
I can’t breathe but somehow it would be worse if I pulled away from the kiss as if he was breathing air into me. My chest heaves as Fred pulls away. My eyes are wide and I can’t stop looking at him. I wonder if anyone’s ever seen his freckles the way I am seeing them right now. I ask, “Will you give me time to figure out my feelings?”
“I’ll give you all the time in the world if you’d ask.”
Remus, just about to leave the house to go somewhere, agressively kissing Sirius out of nowhere to tease him a little, but then when he's at the door, Sirius, who has already recovered, grabs him by the waist and pins him against the wood. Remus is veeery late to wherever he was going ofc
